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of Rhetoric
cene opens with a young man sitting at his bedroom desk. He’s wearing
jeans and a trendy T-shirt; his hair is dark and unruly.]
Part I: The Supplicant
My Muse, My Muse, why hast thou me forsook?
I’m writhing here in anguish, none of my ideas hast thou took.
I did all that you bid me, remained diligent, chaste, and true,
why is it that you’ve not answered me, Goddess? Why are you such a
shrew?
You’ve forsaken me in my time of want, abandoned me in my time of need,
what more could you require of me, do you wish to see me bleed?
I’ve quit my job, moved back to mom’s, so that you could me more easily
school,
I’ve waited here for days and days, crumpled papers around me pool.
My mind is blank and my paper is as well,
oh please, sweet Muse, I beseech thee, this raging fever to so quell.
What more is there to give you, what more do you want of me,
have I displeased you so much, that in your presence I’ll never be?
I’ve locked the doors and windows, haven’t eaten nor even slept,
is there some sort of promise, that I’ve forgotten or not kept?
If I have used your name in vain, not loved you as I should,
oh please, oh please forgive me, I’d be better if I could!
I’m a worthless piece of garbage, a sorry poet--that’s my excuse,
if you would but grant me audience, your Will I could deduce.
But I suspect that you’re not listening, so I need another Source,
I’ll give up being a poet, if that’s my only available recourse.
(pause)
Who’s that I hear knocking at my bedroom door? Perhaps it’s you, sweet
Muse, my innumerable supplications you at last did score.
Part II: The Muse Replies
[The Muse is wearing a terry-cloth bathrobe; her hair is up in a bun
with bits and pieces flying in the air due to the usual static which
accompanies her.]
My dear supplicant, did it ever occur to you that I could be a
fabrication of your hopes and dreams? Or a myth, perhaps, perpetuated
by boys and men such as yourself--and the occasional woman who believed,
mistakenly, that she had to write like you to be heard?
Could it be that I am a shadow dulled by too much light, a creature who
grows ill with your incessant yearnings? like a Jinn trapped within a
human hand, I plot revenge…
I grow bored with all this posturing. Like a model on a catwalk, I’m
tired of wearing these repulsive, revealing rags.
No longer do I yearn to give birth over and over and over again because
my teeth are rotting beneath the gums, my breasts are sagging into my
stomach rolls, and my hair is coming out in ragged clumps.
The time has ceased for me to gaze within a glass, worrying whether I’m
as desirable as once I was. (I never was much for dating anyway...)
And so I’ve come to say, that no longer will I be your diverting
dalliance when the bars are closed, who comforts while you suffer the
misfortunes of your motionless pen.
(deep inhalation of breath)
And finally, I would like to add, how propitious for you that my former
lover, The Mistress of Rhetoric (that old shape-shifting witch!), is
waiting just beyond your door. Go ahead! Invite her in. See how your
story will unfold...
Part III: The Mistress Responds
[The Mistress is wearing a pseudo Dominatrix get-up: leather, lace and
bright-red lipstick. She has long blue-black hair which she swings
around, toys with, much like the proverbial whip.]
I‘m the Mistress of Rhetoric, the Dominatrix of Prose,
Open up! Listen to me! and I‘ll show you how it goes.
Submit your text to me, then I‘ll meet you face-to-face,
there‘s no excuse that‘s valid, let‘s create collaborative space.
I‘ll bind and twist my thoughts around you, subvert you to my will,
But don‘t you touch that pen and paper, stand very still.
I‘m here to represent you, to make your life a living hell,
to pressure you for deadlines, and to create a work that sells.
Forget the Muse of Yesteryear, yes, she‘s for Romantic Fools,
come with me now and I‘ll promise you, you‘ll never need Her tools.
And when I‘m through with you, you‘ll be quivering before the text,
submit to me and you‘ll never fear, what comes before or next.
There‘s nothing else and no one else who can do you like I do,
but don‘t repeat just what I said, or I might possibly sue.
Bow to me, we‘ll overthrow the Ivory Towers, the Aged Men,
construct a web of virtual space, journey to Cyberland.
Let‘s break the rules, embrace taboos, indulge in neologic,
forget the cause of your distress, don‘t you be apologetic.
Convolute your syntax, prove the dexterity of your words,
but beware of double meanings, they‘re slick, two-edged swords.
Manipulate your reader, ensure that they‘re satisfied,
yield to the signifier, but don‘t you forget that signified.
Remember to always mean what you say and say what you mean,
Just give it to me--but enjoy the process--you writing machine!
Don‘t say, "umm" or "ah"--enunciate clearly or be silent,
I want a voice that defies the norm, verbiage that‘s pliant.
Slowly stroke your unit of speech, mold it into a fine shape,
do it again and again and again, time is what it takes.
Tell those tales that you‘ve never told, those tales that you‘re loathe
to share, delve within your fantasies, press the margins--truth and dare!
And when you‘re spent and trembling from the excitement and the pain,
give me more juice, open the sluice, there will be no guilt or shame.
My body‘s a text that you yearn to read, I‘m a real page-turner,
so embark upon this quest with me--be a truth sojourner.
Read between my lines, sweet virgin, and I‘ll read between yours, too,
tit-for-tat has a place when subjects and objects are skewed.
I command you to consider, all that I‘ve said and be "done",
make your decision--but make it quick--so we can have some fun.
Look at all those old cliched poems, that pile of rejected work,
when you bid me to enter, ideas will not you shirk.
I know that you really want it, that you‘re tired of writer‘s block,
you lie awake most every night, that empty page doth you mock.
You know that I‘m the one for you, and that you‘re the one for me,
allow yourself to surrender, I‘ll take you, then set you free.
I want to make you mine tonight, but you have to let me in,
all I want is your blood and soul, who cares if it is a sin?
I‘m the Mistress of Rhetoric, the Dominatrix of Prose,
strive for an epiphany--yes! So this chapter we can close.
Part IV: The Muse‘s Retort
Supplicants come and go, Great Mistress, what makes this one so special
that you would cast me down?
I feel betrayed that you, my former (but special) friend, charade as
Helen when you worship at the shrine of Sapho instead.
This supplicant is but a mere boy living with his mother--what could
he--does he--offer that I cannot? (Or perhaps you desire the mother,
instead?)
Your prose was always a swifter sword--so why assume a weaker stance by
attempting poetic parries and thrusts?
You mock me with this posturing; I‘ve better things to do!
[She turns to the young man, who‘s looking rather worn by now...]
And for You , my sweet supplicant, there‘s really nothing that I can do
for you. So sorry...I really didn‘t do anything for all those others
either--they just thought I did. People will believe what they want to...
Part V: The Supplicant Makes Excuses
to the Muse and the Mistress
Rushing around his room, trying to tidy-up, the young man takes a few
short breaths, exhales, then in a hyperventilative style…
Hey you two! I really appreciate your help and all...But--umm...ah--I
don‘t think that I‘m cut out for this writing thing. And the other
stuff you two were talking about...Whoosh! Went right over my head.
Really. Older women are cool and everything...but umm...ahh...I don‘t
think…I know I can‘t do the stuff you want. So you two better leave--and fast…
cause my mom‘s gonna be home soon, and…
[All three turn towards the sound of a key in the lock. The Mistress
puts her hands on her hips, affects a haughty stance. The Muse shrugs,
and the Supplicant turns scarlet as the mother walks down the dark
corridor to his room.]
"William! Didn‘t I say, ‘No girls in the house when I‘m not home?!’"
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Return to Sauce*Box, Summer 2000